


What They Trade Away

by dreamlittleyo



Series: I'm Not Sorry (Kinky Dice Oneshots) [5]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Elements, Angst, Blood, Canon Era, Doppelganger, Everything Hurts, Feelings, First Time, M/M, Magic, Mind Games, Pain, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-21 00:35:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16148849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: In which the war is unwinnable, and Washington makes an unforgivable exchange.





	What They Trade Away

There's been bile at the back of Washington's throat since the moment his vile guest voiced the terms of its cooperation.

He wishes—more than anything in his goddamn life he wishes—that there were other options available to him. But desperation licks at his heels. He has a responsibility to the army, and he cannot win this war. Not with the resources available to him.

He needs help. He can't afford to refuse the offer of aid, regardless of the unpardonable price.

Washington wishes _Hamilton_ would refuse. The boy’s participation must be voluntary, or the deal won't hold. Washington can't refuse for him—a general is responsible for his entire army, not just for one soldier—but if _Hamilton_ refused, that would be it. No further discussion, no negotiation.

Back to square one. A deadly and hopeless position, and yet still more appealing than the prospect before them now.

"I'm sorry," Washington says, softly, for Hamilton's ears alone. "I wish I did not have to ask this of you." He can't order Hamilton to refuse; he can only hope for better sense and reason to assert themselves, for Hamilton to balk, and in doing so to let them both off the hook.

But Hamilton wears a stubborn expression as he stares across the empty tavern-turned-headquarters, at the figure malingering in the far corner. It looks human, more or less. Tall, sturdy, male. But there is something unnatural in the way it stands—an almost eerie stillness—and in the impossibly smooth movements that guide its limbs whenever that stillness breaks. Something sinister and malicious.

Something _wrong_.

Its skin is faintly gray, its eyes a green so bright they literally glow in the gloom. The workroom is vacant but for Hamilton, Washington, and their unwelcome guest. Prudence required the conjuring be conducted in the dead of night, with an empty building and perfect silence. Summoning demons is not a ritual to be performed in front of witnesses; it's an act of hopeless desperation, and a dangerous secret to keep.

Almost a full minute has passed without Hamilton acknowledging Washington's apology. When his boy finally speaks, it's neither absolution nor anger.

"You'll stay, won't you?" Hamilton sounds stubborn and calm on the surface, but the facade is an imperfect mask drawn taut over trembling fear.

Washington tears his gaze from the far corner of the room and gawps at his chief of staff. "You _want_ me to stay?"

He assumed his boy's ferocious pride would deny him even if Washington offered. He fully intends to stay close—to watch and listen and find some way to intervene if their guest takes things too far—but up to this moment, his plan was to loiter in secret. To carefully ensure that Hamilton never suspects a witness to his humiliation.

That Hamilton is instead asking outright seems… improbable. A sure sign that the young colonel is truly terrified.

Washington aches to call this off. To send the demon away unsatisfied and damn the consequences.

But that way lies ruin. Death and torture at the hands of powerful enemies. Washington harbors no delusions that the British might spare his staff. They will all be hanged as traitors to the crown, painful examples made of them alongside their general.

_This_ is the only path forward, the only way to prevent the inevitable. Washington cannot simply will it otherwise.

"I know you can't interfere," Hamilton says in a voice of quiet agony. "You can't protect me after I sign the contract. But if you're nearby I think… I know I can do this."

"Whatever you need, Colonel." Washington defaults to rank, hoping it will provide some steadiness, some comfort. But Hamilton flinches at the address, and Washington immediately regrets it.

He wishes to God the demons had asked for something else. Anything besides this. But then, Washington doesn't believe in God. He hasn't for a very long time; if he did, he would not have invoked the help of a demon in the first place.

This boon would not have been asked, and their cause would be just as surely lost.

Perhaps if he had insisted on performing the ritual alone. If the demon had not _seen_ Hamilton, surely it would not have demanded satisfaction of him. Perhaps a different, more practical trade would have been possible. At the very worst, it would be Washington alone agreeing to its terms and signing this accursed contract. He would pay the price alone; his boy would be safe.

But Washington has already proffered such a counter offer. Himself in place of his chief of staff. The demon will not have it. It requires Alexander; no substitution will suffice.

Washington will never forget Hamilton’s look of disbelieving horror on understanding what was being asked of him.

Horror or not, Hamilton is not backing down, and Washington's heart turns to ash in his chest as he braces for what is about to happen.

"It will hurt you," Washington says, a whisper, a final effort to convince his boy to stand down.

"Yes." Hamilton's eyes are wide as he looks up into his general's face. He is breathing fast and shallow, a demonstration of barely controlled panic. "But it won't kill me. No lasting damage. The contract is clear on that."

Washington does not bother pointing out that a creature like this—power like this—can inflict an endless variety of hurts without killing him. Hamilton knows this. He certainly doesn't need reminding of a truth so obvious and grim.

Then—before Washington can lodge any further protests—before he can change his mind completely and order Hamilton to stand down, Hamilton crosses the room.

The demon, which has not stopped watching general and colonel confer at a distance, grins wide at Hamilton's approach. There’s vicious smugness glinting in those glowing green eyes. Teeth flash impossibly sharp. It stares down into Hamilton's face, and its every manner is predatory.

"We agree to your terms." Hamilton sounds impressively steady. Confident. Sure.

Washington wants to scream. He bites his tongue and keeps silent.

"Excellent," the demon murmurs, smooth as molasses. An elaborate swirl of one hand through the air, and a scrolled parchment appears. It glows like the demon's eyes, and drapes itself across the narrow table near the hearth. Hamilton's quill and ink are at the edge of the table—he is standing almost exactly where he usually sits to write, though his chair has been shoved to the side.

Without a word, Hamilton inks his quill and signs his name to the bottom of the contract. An instant later and the scroll vanishes, leaving anxious silence in its wake.

The demon seems to enjoy the discomfited silence, the subtle struggle of Hamilton clinging to a facade of calm.

But even demons apparently do not possess infinite patience. Eventually a different glint enters those vicious green eyes, a tongue darts out to wet dry lips, a fresh chill twines through the room. Washington doesn't know if the chill is real, or if he is simply imagining it vividly, miserable as the demon's gaze locks hungrily on his boy.

"Well?" the demon says in a deceptively light tone. "Out of that uniform, so I can enjoy my compensation properly."

Hamilton's gaze jerks floor-ward and he stifles a sound of audible displeasure. But he immediately shrugs his coat from his shoulders and reaches for his neckcloth. His waistcoat comes next, and even halfway across the workroom Washington can see that his hands are shaking.

Bile and rage creep up the back of Washington's throat and he eases closer. Fists his hands tightly at his sides.

He can't interfere. But he burns to put a stop to this.

When Hamilton is completely naked—boots and all—the demon purrs, "On your knees, little one. I want to see what that clever mouth can do."

Hamilton's jaw visibly clenches, but he sinks obediently to the floor. Washington can't see clearly like this—the narrow worktable is in the way—so he shifts his position. Eases along the perimeter of the room until he can once again see both demon and colonel clearly in the hearth's flickering light.

He has an unobstructed view as the demon trails gentle fingers through Hamilton's hair, undoing the queue and tossing the ribbon to the floor. And then a moment later when those long fingers twist hard in the dark strands and give what looks like a painful yank—forcing Hamilton's head up and his gaze away from the floor.

"Are you scared?" the demon croons. It traces pale fingers along Hamilton's cheek and jaw.

Hamilton's throat bobs in a hard swallow, but he doesn't answer. _Good boy_ , Washington thinks with a surge of impotent protectiveness. _Don't give this bastard any extra ammunition_.

The demon drops its taunting caress. Without releasing its grip in Hamilton's hair, it unbuttons its own clothing and pulls out a remarkably human-looking cock. Sizable, thick, already slick at the tip. Other than the gray pallor to match the rest of the demon's unnatural skin, there is nothing strange about it at all. Washington doesn't know why he expected otherwise.

"Open your mouth," the demon commands in a cutting tone, and Hamilton immediately obeys.

It's surely instinct, the way Hamilton tries to jerk back as the thick head of the demon's cock shoves past parted lips. There's no retreating, of course. The demon holds him soundly, inhuman strength in the hands twisted in Hamilton's hair and holding him in place. No escape as unrelenting hips fuck even farther forward and Hamilton gags noisily at the hard length pressing too deep.

Alexander's palms rise to the demon's hips as though to push the creature away, but this too is useless instinct. Those hips rut forward instead, and the demon grabs at Hamilton's head with both hands now, holding him still as the thick cock fucks down Alexander's unwilling throat.

Hamilton's whole body spasms at the intrusion. He chokes helplessly, violently as his jaw stretches wide around the overwhelming girth. Tears slick his face, and Washington can see his boy straining, pushing ineffectually back against unyielding hips.

Washington takes a jerky step forward, stops when the demon's eyes cut smugly toward him. His chest is ice cold, a winter storm of rage so fierce it's all he can do to stand still and let this happen.

When the demon drags Hamilton off its cock, it is only a temporary reprieve. A fleeting moment before dragging the boy forward once more. Impaling his throat far more violently than necessary—Washington winces at the strangled cry that ends abruptly as the length down Hamilton's throat cuts off his air.

The demon does not stop. Once it's gone as far as it can, it withdraws just as roughly. Fucks forward again. A harsh and immediate rhythm, half thrusting, half forcing Hamilton along the length of its cock. The guttural sounds that accompany the rhythm are pure torture—bad enough to listen to, Washington can't fathom how it must feel—wet gasps and gurgles, muffled cries, gagging so loud it's a wonder the boy can breathe at all.

By contrast, the sounds emitting from the demon are uncomplicated pleasure. Moaning, gasping, blissful noises that make Washington's stomach roil with nausea. He can't do this—can't allow this to continue— _he was wrong_ , and he draws a ragged breath. Steels himself to storm forward and tear that monster off his boy.

His limbs do not move, and his stomach lurches in whole new terrified ways. He tries again to take a step, and again he can't move. He's frozen to unwilling stillness where he stands. He tries to shout with rage, but even his voice does not work.

When he raises his head—this much movement he can manage—he finds the demon watching him with a cruel smile. Malignant satisfaction twists the smile wider, showing improbably sharp canines.

He expects the demon to taunt him for his efforts— _useless_ —he should have known he wouldn't be able to interfere. But instead green eyes turn downward once more. They catch on Hamilton's flushed face, wet with tears. Another moment and the demon drags Hamilton forward _hard_. Filling his throat brutally, curling strong hands around his skull and the nape of his neck. The demon grunts as it wedges the full length of its cock so deep Hamilton's face is pressed to the demon's belly.

Hamilton's eyes are clenched shut, and his entire body trembles so hard Washington can see him shaking. It's clear the boy is in agony, that he can't breathe, that he is pushing with all his futile strength against the body before him.

_Stop_ , Washington tries to yell. _Let him go, we don't want your contract_. Damn the war. Damn the supernatural help the demon has promised in return for its demands. Washington still can't think of any other way, but he no longer cares. He can't stand by and let this continue.

But he cannot stop the demon if he _cannot move_. He's as much a prisoner as Hamilton now. Just as powerless to prevent the violation unfolding before his eyes.

The demon is still holding Hamilton trapped against its belly, and those green eyes glow brighter than ever.

"You're a natural at this," it croons, staring down at its struggling victim. "No one would ever suspect you've never tasted cock before."

_Oh god_. Washington's heart lurches with new denial. God, it can't be true. Hamilton has so many intimate friends, men _and_ women. He is a flirt who makes no secret of the nights spent away from his bedroll. Washington has assumed from the start…

Those things shouldn't matter. They _don't_ matter. The ordeal Hamilton is suffering would be no less tolerable, no less brutal for a man with more worldly experience. Yet the knowledge that this demon is the boy's first makes Washington's very soul scream in fruitless denial.

The demon looks to him again, leering as though sensing his pain and reveling in it. "Didn't you know?" comes the oily purr. "I thought a general like you would understand _exactly_ what he was trading away."

_You're lying_ , Washington wants to scream. _How would you know such a thing?_

The demon cocks its head to one side, wedges Hamilton even more firmly in place, and answers as though Washington has spoken aloud.

"I know a great many things. He signed my contract; he has no secrets from me." There is an unmistakable air of gloating now. "Shall I show you what else I know? What he truly wants? What he's terrified you might discover?"

Hamilton's struggles turn suddenly more violent—still ineffective, but wild with renewed desperation. It could be want of air, but Washington has a sinking feeling that it's something else entirely. That the demon is being truthful and really can see into Hamilton's secrets. That it is about to show Washington something he has no goddamn right to.

_Don't_ , he thinks desperately, since the demon can obviously hear him. His insides are chilly with despair, his muscles trembling and exhausted from the invisible iron grip restraining him.

But the demon just laughs and yanks Hamilton off its cock in a jerky movement. Pulls hard at the boy's hair to make Alexander look up even as the boy sputters and coughs and sucks in air. Then, holding Hamilton viciously still—staring down with gleeful cruelty—the demon transforms.

In the span of a heartbeat, the pale gray visage shimmers and fades. Replaced all too quickly by Washington's own face.

It is a nearly perfect illusion, and Washington chokes back a fresh surge of bile. No—this monster does not get to use _his face_ while brutalizing his chief of staff—this was not part of the agreement. This _cannot happen_.

But Washington is just as trapped now as he was before the demon transformed.

"Isn't this better, little one?" Even the voice is a near-perfect imitation, and Washington's skin crawls at the effect. Such malice and delight distorting every syllable.

" _Stop_ ," Hamilton croaks, ruined voice gone to gravel from the rough ramming of a cock down his throat. He jerks against the demon's hold, as though he can't help trying to _look_ at Washington. But the demon gives him no leeway. Alexander can't get away.

"Oh, you beautiful young fool. I'm not going to stop. I'm just getting started." With sickening grace, it pulls Hamilton up from the floor and drags their bodies flush—Hamilton naked and vulnerable—the demon clothed and powerful and wearing Washington's face.

A twist of fingers hard in Hamilton's hair, and the demon claims a harsh mockery of a kiss. Hamilton squirms and fails to get free as the demon plunders his unwilling mouth. It seems to go on for an eternity. Washington tries to look away—close his eyes—but he lacks even that much control over his own body. Horror roils in his stomach; he is going to be sick.

Witnessing this assault play out before his eyes would be bad enough without any additional guilt, but Washington cannot will away the knowledge that he _has_ imagined kissing Hamilton. Touching him. Taking him to bed. Idle fantasies—he's never once truly considered crossing such lines—but he has thought about it. And it can't be coincidence that the demon has chosen _this form_.

It certainly can't be true that Hamilton has harbored similar fantasies about him.

The kiss ends as violently as it began, and the demon turns Hamilton in its arms, crushes him back against the broad chest. Forces Hamilton to face his general.

Washington's breath hitches at the raw agony written across his boy's tear-slick face. Wounded eyes stare straight into Washington's soul, wordlessly begging him to make this stop.

Washington would stop it in a heartbeat if he had the strength to simply _move_. He would find a way. Defy Hell and Heaven both to end this here and now.

But he can't even speak, let alone move, as the demon bites teasingly at Hamilton's earlobe and croons, "Go on, Alexander. Tell him the truth. Tell him how many times you've imagined yourself in his bed, helpless beneath him."

Instead of denying it, Hamilton drops his head forward, shame in the slouch of his shoulders and the way his gaze cuts to the floor. The boy's face flushes an even brighter shade of red, and his mouth hangs ajar, his chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths.

_Let him go_ , Washington rails in his own head. These secrets are not his to hear, and he can't bear to see this continue. His chief of staff is coming apart before his eyes, and no military victory is worth this cost.

But the demon only smiles and gives an idle thrust of hips, jostling Hamilton, rutting against his backside as though promising more to come.

"Perhaps you'd like a taste?" the demon offers, looking Washington dead in the eye.

The inescapable vice eases around him, just enough to let him speak. Enough that Washington suspects he could accept the invitation and approach. The demon would share, so long as Washington cooperates. The very idea makes his stomach churn even before Hamilton's attention snaps to his face with a look of panicked horror.

"Fuck you," Washington snarls. It's the only answer he can manage. He would tear out his own heart before using his boy that way.

He still tries to move—tries to jerk forward while the demon's control is slack—but he makes it only one step before the invisible prison snaps back into place. He breathes a furious growl, but a moment later even his voice is frozen once more. He is helpless again. He wants to scream.

The demon contorts its borrowed features into a mask of disappointment. "So little imagination," it sighs. "I suppose you can have him when I'm done. After I've broken him in for you."

_Never_ , Washington tries to shout. He wants to bloody the demon's face—his own face—with angry fists. Wants to hit and hit and hit this vile creature until the visage it wears is a wrecked and distorted pulp.

He pictures it clearly, hopes the image carries from his mind with every wrathful detail.

The demon pays him no mind, apparently bored with him now that Washington has refused its invitation. Instead the demon's full attention settles heavily on Hamilton. Then, so quickly Washington's eyes barely track the movement, the demon pivots and _shoves_ , bending Hamilton forward over the work table. It forces the boy down so hard Hamilton's temple knocks against the wood, and Washington flinches—or would if he could _move_.

Hamilton tries to squirm away only for the demon to grab his wrists and pin them on either side of him. It's not enough to quell Hamilton's struggles. He jerks against the demon's grip, earning only a tighter hold and a cruel laugh for his efforts. There's discomfort in the grunt Hamilton breathes as the demon drags both wrists above Hamilton's head and traps them against the table in a single powerful hand.

"You have spirit, little one. The things I could do with you if I just had a little more time…" There's wistfulness in the tone as the demon trails off, and Washington's heart clenches in fear. He can't—the contract was specific and the demon _cannot_ defy the terms of the deal—he can't continue this brutal game beyond the brief scope agreed upon.

But there is still the awful moment of fear before Washington manages to push it aside. By the time his panic eases, Washington realizes the demon has draped along Hamilton's back and is reaching between their bodies, only one possible end in mind. Hamilton bucks violently—ineffectually—beneath the demon's weight.

"Relax, my boy," the demon orders, and it's awful how natural he sounds using Washington's voice, Washington's tone and cadence. "Stop fighting. You'll only hurt yourself."

Hamilton gasps a hysterical sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh. It's shattered and wounded, and Washington's heart lurches hearing his boy sound like that. God, if Hamilton is so completely inexperienced, the demon is going to tear him apart. There's been no talk of oil to ease the way, no loosening of Hamilton's body with even the insufficient expedient of spit and fingers. The demon is lining up to fuck into him with no preparation at all, and fear is written bright and panicked across Alexander's face.

There is no mistaking the moment the demon breaches him.

Hamilton's whole body goes rigid, his eyes flashing impossibly wide, jaw dropping on a silent scream. He twists helplessly beneath the demon's weight, yanks ineffectually at his pinned wrists. He clamps his jaw, clenches his eyes tightly shut as the demon drives deeper with a brutal thrust.

The wounded sound Hamilton breathes doesn't even sound human. It's a guttural cry, a choked sob of agony that cuts short as the demon's hips snap forward again. As the demon's body crushes Hamilton to the table and fills him completely.

Hamilton chokes on another frantic sob when the demon withdraws only to rut forward even harder, filling him in one quick, vicious roll of hips. Smoother this time. Hamilton is almost certainly bleeding, torn apart by the length impaling him. Pleasure shines bright and slack on the demon's face, and the sight galls and sickens Washington all the worse for seeing his own features distorted by stolen bliss.

He wants to kill this demon. Damn the war, damn the British, damn the consequences that may befall his own tarnished soul. He wants to rip this monster apart with his bare hands and leave the impossible corpse to rot.

The demon is fucking Alexander in earnest now. Riding him so hard the table scuffs against the floor beneath unmeasured strength. There's a jarring sound of glass as Hamilton's ink bottle falls from the edge of the desk and shatters on the floor. Hamilton cries out with every thrust, his whole body rocking forward, only his toes scraping the ground. Even now he's trying to get away, but his efforts seem only to delight the demon into using him more ferociously.

Washington doesn't want to watch, but he can't look away. He's powerless to avert his eyes as the demon mounts his boy like a fucking animal—as it takes its pleasure without mercy, raping Alexander with inhuman stamina. An unforgiving eternity of gasps and sobs and muffled cries.

Eventually even a man as stubborn as Hamilton must surrender beneath such an onslaught, and the moment he stops fighting Washington's soul shatters. It's like the snuffing of a candle flame: life and spirit bright in one instant, and then abruptly _nothing_. Stillness. Obedience.

Not silence. The rocking motion of their bodies still elicits a litany of awful noises from Hamilton's abused throat. Rhythmic and tortured, though quieter by the minute. Hamilton's eyes stare straight ahead, empty and transfixed on nothing. When the demon releases his wrists, he does not move them.

The demon pushes upright now, and grasps Hamilton by the hips. Powerful fingers dig in so hard Washington wonders if Hamilton registers the sensation through the rest of the pain. The extra leverage allows an even faster pace, a rhythm more brutal than before. Useless protest clogs Washington's throat. Surely Hamilton's body can't withstand this, can't _survive_ this.

He can see—just barely—the space where bodies join, and there is blood between Hamilton's legs. Staining his thighs. Proof of the violence being done, the harm Washington can never make right.

Washington chose this. He _allowed_ this. Conducted the ritual that started them on this path, allowed his boy to sign that damned contract.

It begins to feel as though the demon will never stop. The sharp slap of skin against skin takes on a surreal quality, punctuated less and less frequently by Alexander's exhausted cries of pain.

It's not until the first glimmer of dawn grays the sky through sooty windows that Washington dares to hope. The sun is here: according to the terms of the contract, Hamilton's ordeal _must_ end.

The demon fucks deep one last time and stills, borrowed face distorting, eyes glowing blindingly green. A feral growl cuts through the quiet of the workroom, a monstrous sound. Vicious and low and unnatural. The demon drops forward as it comes, sinking sharp teeth in at the junction of neck and shoulder. The bite makes Hamilton rally enough to give a high moan, life startling back into distant eyes.

When the demon pulls out, it's a graceless movement, heedless of the battered body it is leaving in its wake. Hamilton grunts with the pain of it, whimpers when long fingers quest between his thighs. Touching him where he is already badly hurt.

"I seem to have gotten carried away," the demon murmurs, though there's no hint of remorse in its voice.

_You said no permanent damage_ , Washington tries to snarl, but the demon's hold on him is still complete.

"Yes," the demon agrees with his unspoken protest. "And. Well. A deal's a deal." It sinks two fingers into Hamilton's brutalized body, earning a low keen of agony. But the keening eases, as does the pain in Hamilton's eyes a moment later. When those fingers withdraw, there is grudging awareness in Hamilton's dark eyes.

Then the demon straightens. Its clothing is pristine, its cock already tucked away. No physical sign of the violent rape that ended only seconds ago. It still wears Washington's face; Washington still wants to scream.

"I thank you both for your hospitality," the demon says with a smug smile. "It's been a genuine pleasure. I will see that you win your impossible little war."

Then the demon is gone—vanished in the wink of an eye—and its power with it. The restraining force disappears so suddenly Washington nearly falls. He hadn't realized he was straining forward so hard.

He doesn't waste the momentum. In the span of a heartbeat he is at Hamilton's side. Reaching for him, careful, trying to mask his own desperate worry.

Hamilton flinches at the sight of him, and Washington's heart clamps cold in his chest.

He backs off—just a little—and says, "He's gone, Alexander. It's just me. There's no one here but us."

Hamilton tries to push himself up from the table, but his arms wobble and give out beneath him. He lands with a pathetic thud right where the demon put him. His eyes close as a shudder courses through him.

Washington takes in the sight of his boy and barely fights back the tidal wave of guilt. There are dark bruises circling Hamilton's wrists and forearms. Even darker bruises framing bare hips. The imprint of teeth at his throat is bloody—that monster broke the skin—and Hamilton's lips are red and swollen.

"I'm sorry," Washington breathes. "I'm sorry, my boy, but I need to—" He will be quick. Guides Hamilton's thighs apart, touches with as much care as he can, because he needs to see. Needs to be sure the demon held up his end of the deal.

His investigations show far less damage than he should find. Hamilton is hurt, yes. The rim of his ass looks swollen and sore, his flesh abused. He is still bleeding. But not as much as he should be. Not enough to match the brutal mess between trembling thighs.

Hamilton grunts in discomfort but makes no move to get away, and Washington shakes with rage.

Not just rage. There's guilt here too. The weight of a regret he will never scrub clean. It doesn't matter that his hands weren't the ones holding Hamilton down. He is still to blame. _He_ did this to his boy.

"Let me help you up," he says, as gently as he can. "We can't stay here. The sun is rising." The rest of his staff will be here soon. Washington needs to get Hamilton safely out of sight before anyone finds them like this.

For just an instant a self-destructive idea nags at the very edges of his mind. What if they _are_ discovered? There can be only one conclusion drawn by rational men: that Washington did this. Attacked his chief of staff. Overpowered and violated him. The contract is clear: the colonial army will win its war against the British. Those terms will carry the day even if Washington is punished—perhaps executed—for unforgivable crimes against a subordinate.

He forces those thoughts away. Hamilton would never forgive him for either the humiliation of others seeing him like this, or for taking the coward's way out.

For all that the demon seems to have healed the worst of the physical damage, Hamilton is nearly dead weight at Washington's side as they mount the stairs and seclude themselves in the general's private quarters. Washington sets the latch securely and guides Hamilton to his bed. Helps him lie down atop the bedclothes without care for the inevitable mess. Damn the bedclothes—Washington will burn them if the blood refuses to come clean—he cares only for Alexander and the agonized exhaustion shivering through the man's small frame.

It's only after Hamilton is settled that Washington puts down the clean but chaotic bundle of discarded uniform, setting the fabric atop a chair and surveying the room. There's a basin near the window, clean cloth, a pitcher of water.

Washington wets the cloth and returns to the bed. Wipes at Hamilton's face before cleaning away the worst of the mess between his boy's legs, every touch as gentle as possible.

Hamilton watches him wordlessly, tracking with wary attention.

When the task is complete, Washington helps Hamilton ease beneath the blankets. His boy is still shivering, but he moves pliantly. Obedient. It's enough to remind Washington of the bile at the back of his throat.

He stands from the edge of the bed, sets the soiled cloth aside, moves to leave—the least he can give his boy now is privacy.

But Hamilton reaches for him, catching Washington by the wrist and tugging him back down. Alexander's grip is weak, but Washington follows anyway. He sits on the very edge of the mattress, keeping as much space as possible between them, and meets Hamilton’s piercing stare head-on.

He pushes away the images that rise unwelcome in his mind. His own face, leering with inhuman malice. His boy kneeling on the floor, struggling to breathe. A symphony of pain written across that expressive face. Washington can't face those things right now. Can't face the things he may have wanted for himself, albeit with no intention of taking them. Can't face the guilt of having put Alexander through all this.

If he allows himself to think about _any_ of it, he will shut down. He can't afford to do that while Hamilton needs him.

"What is it?" He keeps his tone low and kind. Resists the urge to brush damp strands of hair away from Hamilton's forehead.

Alexander's eyes are far too lucid as he asks, "Was it enough?"

"My dear boy," Washington breathes softly. " _Of course_ it was enough." He can't bring himself to say _you did well_ , though he senses it's what Hamilton wants to hear. Such a benediction crosses too close to approval of the violation he just witnessed, and Washington can't bring himself to voice those words aloud. He can't even think them.

Hamilton's fingers still loosely circle Washington's wrist. "He'll keep his word? He'll intervene in the outcome of the war?"

"We _will_ defeat the British," Washington confirms with complete conviction. They will win. It will not be worth the price; but he can't allow Hamilton to know this truth. His boy would take it the wrong way. Would find some way to judge _himself_ lacking instead of Washington.

"Will you stay?" Hamilton asks, jarring him from unpleasant thoughts.

"What?" He gawps, floored at the request—chilled at the symmetry of it. He can't have heard right. Hamilton cannot possibly want him here.

"Stay with me," Hamilton says more firmly. "I don't want— I can't—" A pause, a shuddering breath, before he manages to finish, "I think if I'm alone right now, I might do something bad."

Washington's heart lurches, and he answers without hesitation, "Of course I will stay." Someone will eventually come to the door looking for him, and he will have to conjure some excuse to explain his own hiding away, plus Hamilton's absence from the workroom.

But those are problems for later. For now Washington allows Hamilton to pull him down, lying along the edge of the mattress. Atop the bedclothes. At as much of a distance as he can manage without falling to the floor.

It's obvious Hamilton doesn't want to be touched, even as he insists on keeping Washington close. There is unaccustomed wariness in his expression. A deep shadow lingering behind his eyes, a ceaseless trembling Washington can feel even through the blankets that separate them.

Washington's heart slips sideways and lodges somewhere painful. He twists his fingers in the topmost blanket and closes his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

It will never be enough.


End file.
